The Traveler: an act in five parts
by Missing Triforce
Summary: Sherlock is a traveler, visiting the cities of the world. One in particular catches his attention: Watsonville. AU, some serious weirdness, pre slash, mindfuckery, please R&R! PM the author if you have any questions.
1. Act 1

**Hello! I know it's been forever. Please note that this super seriously cracktastic. If you have any questions, review and/or pm me.**  
**Disclaimer: All characters belong to people who are not me.**

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_The Traveler: an act in five parts, A_ BBC Sherlock _Fanfic_

_Act 1_

"Creation destroys as it goes, throws down one tree for the rise of another. But ideal mankind would abolish death, multiply itself million upon million, rear up city upon city, save every parasite alive, until the accumulation of mere existence is swollen to a horror." -David Herbert Lawrence

In his travels, Sherlock had been in many cities. In the first place, the earth was practically barren between them, oceans of dirt and beige and boring. He just motorbiked through those plains, his coat whipping behind. The cities were the interesting bits, filled with architecture and denizens enough to fill the hours of time between sleep. Sherlock liked sleep. It was calm, quiet, soothing. It passed the time quickest between him and death.

He was from Holmesville, that was where Mummy had lived. It had been a pleasant place full of violin music and gardens. He had loved Mummy as much as he could love a person. Mummy would give him small puzzles and would smile and smooth out his curls when he solved them, telling him he was a good, intelligent boy, that she was proud of him, that he was loved absolutely.  
And then she had died.  
Holmesville had shriveled.

The Mycroft Neighborhood Association had taken over. Instead of gardens, there were plush townhouses and sky-rises. Bakeries of all sorts popped up in the more obscure corners and there was a single store full of umbrellas. Instead of violins, there was a steady hum of voices: people talking, debating, wanting. The only greenery was neat, clipped hedges with edges so sharp they could draw blood. In the town's very center, a huge weeping willow stood. The willow's trunk was gnarled, ancient, and scarred, twisting under the sidewalk to trip up the citizens. The Holmesville citizens were the most interesting, to Sherlock anyway. They all had multiples faces.

But before Sherlock could ever properly interview any of the citizens, Mycroft himself always found him, forced him to do something he did not want. It always made Holmesville's intermediate weather into a thunderstorm.  
Thunderstorms hurt.  
Sherlock did not like visiting Mycroft or Holmesville very much.

He visited Lestradeville the most. It was very close to Andersonvillle and Donovanville, which weren't very nice (both were not very populated, smelled of men's deodorant, and had too much sexual intrigue). Lestradeville had a pretty even balance of greenery and cityscape, a river running through the center that was perfect for fishing. Lestradeville also presented him with puzzles, more complicated than Mummy's. Sherlock could go into any apartment complex or shop and something was happening, some little mystery or riddle Sherlock could stretch his mind over. Sometimes the citizens of Lestradeville or more often of Donovanville or Andersonville tried to help Sherlock, but he would push them away. Their deductions were always wrong.

Wrong! Wrong! Wrong! Sherlock could shout that into Lestradeville and everything would shut up like a clam, shutters clacked and doors locked. Sherlock tried to control himself, to not shout and only whisper, or blame it on Andersonville citizens getting in the way. Lestradeville's citizens were actually the most helpful in the puzzles.

Sherlock did not like to admit it, but Lestradeville was also the most comfortable city. It had a lab especially built for him and a violin shop that let him try every instrument he wanted. More prominent, father-like citizens were always kind, indulgent, caring, but also strict, keep Sherlock from going crazy with boredom, mad with waiting for it all to end. The more prominent wife- and mother-like citizens were flighty and slept around while caring for their children. Great multi-taskers, but made the husbands and fathers sad.  
The other citizens had more varying characters, which made life more interesting.

But one day Sherlock was bored with it. Bored! He had lived like this for years now. He had taken to smashing lampposts, graffiting alleyways, running from room to room and not bothering to solve the puzzles, only shouting the most cutting of his deductions at the citizens. He blew up a whole row of fire hydrants. The police had angrily arrested him, cuffing him in a cell, a concerned father-citizen looking on.  
Bored.  
As soon as he was released, he got on his motorbike and rode. He rode on and on and on, hoping against hope to find something new, anything different.

That was how he ran into Watsonville. He had never been there before. He hadn't known it existed. No wait he did: in Lestradville's huge office building, there had been a few forms on the desk, something about a recruiting a new city into the country.  
Sherlock parked his motorbike and began walking down an avenue. It was tidy and lined with trees, some bearing some fruit. Some of the fruit was overripe, others shriveled. Watonsville, Sherlock decided, was more a town than a city. None of the buildings were very tall. Stranger: not many people were walking about. His footsteps echoed.

He passed tea shops and thrift stores, one of which seemed to full of wooly jumpers. A giant hospital stood gleaming white. It was full of people. A town for the sick? Watsonville must have a very caring citizenry. This was greatly contrasted to the army camp next door, which was drilling new recruits. A very caring, very protective citizenry then. Lestradeville had an impressive (though somewhat disused) gym, but Sherlock had never seen an army training center. Watsonville's was smaller than the hospital though and Sherlock wondered if this was normal.

Sherlock found gardens too, which were a bit wild but in some haphazard order. Different areas were neater than others. One was a grand array of cactus and desert shrubs. The most impressive were the wildflowers and roses.

Soon Sherlock realized that Watsonville was rather vast and sprawling, a place that believed in suburbia. Holmesville was more tall than wide, the buildings looming over you as you walked. Lestradeville was also large, but more compact, keeping things together and closer, better to hide nooks and crannies. Watonsville had children playing in the street, some offspring loud and others quiet and watching. For some reason, the watchers worried Sherlock the most. They reminded him of himself too much.

Overall, Sherlock liked it here and he found a place to sleep for the night.

Watsonville was bright in the morning, seeming to hum him awake. The citizens seemed to all drink tea and eat toast. One came up to Sherlock and asked him to solve a rather complicated puzzle. Sherlock solved it in less than a minute and then began asking questions about the citizens and town.

The town began to come alive.

The very air seemed to hum in wonder. A group of citizens formed around him all grinning widely. The weather, which had been slightly cloudy since Sherlock had got here, became fully sunny, beams of warmth against Sherlock's pale skin. A beautiful rosebush grew into existence in front of Sherlock. As he spoke, white flowers burst joyful and a branch grew towards him, reaching out for his fingers, one twinning around his index as he opened his hand to it, the thorns turning away from his flesh, protecting it almost. Sherlock let it because it was interesting. When he stopped talking, it grew another inch before stopping.

Sherlock wanted to ask more questions of the Watsonville residents, but their pleased faces were pushing him towards a breakfast cafe. They chatted and stuffed him with tea and toast and eggs and sausage as he explained himself and asked more questions. They spent the day like that, Sherlock not remembering when he had last eaten so much.  
One of the citizens offered him their own bed for the night and Sherlock took it. He slept for twelve hours.

The next day Sherlock decided to explore more. A gaggle of citizens followed Sherlock around now, eager to hear him speak and observe everything (it was almost as if they had never seen their own city, the endearing idiots). After another full meal, Sherlock felt like he was rolling around, carrying his heavy stomach like a mother about to give birth. He had never been heavier in his life, but he still managed to toddle onwards. But then he stopped and tapped the ground. The pavement echoed. He asked the nearest citizen about it. The citizen frowned and shook its head, not wanting to speak about it. Sherlock insisted. Every city had its dark places, some more than others. Sherlock had already spotted a flophouse, far larger than Lestradeville's, and the most opulent tree-lined way led to it, bearing the most disgusted and sad fruit. Mycroft did not keep a whorehouse, but a large all-you-can-eat-buffet like those in America, filled with slot machines as much as pastries. There were no security cameras: it was a center for unrecorded excess and chaos.

While he was on the subject, Lestradeville's most questionable place was not a whorehouse or even the very small slums. No: even in the slums there had an air of apology, of future care to be had. Citizens moved in and out of it all the time. Lestradeville's most sinister place was a courthouse with its large imposing stone and harsh, judging eyes. The citizens were afraid of it and Sherlock, though having fully explored the place and even sat through a trial, was still the tiniest bit wary.

But Watsonville wasn't like that. It was almost ordinary, some curiosities here and there, but rather ordinary all the same. Sherlock realized that, with its broad avenues and clean streets, it did not have any particularly sinister areas: the flophouse was visible in broad daylight, though admittedly tucked in a corner. It was uncomplicated, transparent almost, but yet eye-catching in its transparency. Even Hooperville, another of Sherlock's more favored travel spots, at first glance was a benign town where each citizen had a cat. But a second glance revealed it had a darker side made manifest by a cemetery full of the living, rotting dead and a maiden chained to the seashore. Watsonville did not have any nooks, hidey-holes, crannies, or obscure corners. Sherlock imagined other travelers might ignore it, rather preferring a flashy ritz or Mycroft's gaudy towers. But this oddity intrigued Sherlock. No town could be like this. It wasn't real. And in the same moment to him it was...comforting, warm, safe, but also dangerous. The ground echoed. It wasn't supposed to do that: the only hint that not all was right.

He asked about the echoing again the next day. And the next day and the next. He visited Lestradeville once, to pick up supplies and make some inquiries about Watsonville. He didn't find much. It had previously been part of some association called Barts and was allied with Stamfordville. Sherlock vaguely recalled the other city: a round, rather humorous place, with a comedy show and a medical teaching clinic. During his time away from his usual haunt, Andersonville citizens had invaded Lestradeville a bit, someone mentioning a tiff between it and Donovanville. The Andersonville citizens were more snippy than usual, poking fun at Sherlock's current favoritism of Watsonville. Sherlock reminded them that their town was full of rats that carried secrets back and forth, tattling on the citizens and laughing at them behind their backs. They finally shut up and let Sherlock go.

Weeks passed and Sherlock was still puzzled by the echoing of Wastsonville's streets. He had measured the angles of every buildings, but to no avail. Nothing could cause the echos like the tapping of his own feet. He had found other interesting things: Watsonville had an enviable recycling program and a slight insecurity that the entire populace had outie belly buttons. A rather large-looking pub was completely boarded up, though some citizens would gaze longingly at it, willing the blockage to disappear. It had a town-wide rugby team and he told the sporty citizens that Lestradeville enjoyed similar activities. In a day that Sherlock frequently looked back on fondly, Lestradeville and Watsonville citizens had a tournament, complete with food and Sherlock sitting in the grass and deducing things about people for trinkets and useless coins. One Watsonville citizen gave him a solid army mug, which his palms fit perfectly and he twirled it around and around and around, pleased.

Sherlock had also found a tree. A huge oak whose bark seemed to glow with life and the branches strung with small lights. The leaves were curled with spikes on the end instead of being broad and soft. It was drought tolerant, Sherlock realized. Interesting. Sherlock wondered if all cities had large, singular trees that were just kept hidden from him. He wondered if they all had scars. Watsonville's had gashes driven into the trunk and imprints of odd shapes, though these imprints seemed to be much older and almost healed. The Holmesville tree was almost made of scars, though Mycroft's Association had covered most of them to be nigh undetectable. Sherlock knew they were there, however. A good way to tell was by hitting the tree: if a scar was underneath your fist, a thin, blueish barrier would flare for a moment and your hand would turn cold.

Speaking of the cold, the weather in Watsonville was ever changeable. For the most part, it was cloudy, not Mycroft's mysterious or oppressive clouds but more Lestradeville's occasional worrisome raindrops. Usually when Sherlock woke, it sunnied a bit, only truly darkening when Sherlock attempted, in a fit of pique, to destroy something. Last time it had been a particularly horrible smelling fruit tree that was too near the flophouse for his liking. The world had rumbled at that, shaking and even quaking until Sherlock left off. A rose bush sprouted afterwards through the concrete, coming towards Sherlock while he was sulking on the sidewalk. It had no thorns and produced a single sunset-colored rose that stroked Sherlock's cheek gently, the air humming a soft tune like a mother's lullaby. The rose's leaves caressed his chin, encouraging him to look up at the sky. Sherlock just saw the sun, burning down at him. But then there was a flash: something like a slightly worn face topped with fine blonde hair. Blue eyes, the color of the sky.

Sherlock looked back at the rose, which had stopped moving. He began talking to it, coaxing it back towards him. He told it it was fantastic, that he liked Watsonville very much, that it was like a giant puzzle for him to solve, not just little puzzles like Lestradeville's or the simple ones of Mummy's. It grew four more flowers which caressed him more, ran insubstantial petals through his hair. When Sherlock felt it was fully complimented, he asked about the flash and the echoing. A citizen came over and said the flash was something that had never happened before and that Sherlock should look into it. It refused to speak about the echoing or the lack of dark corners. Sherlock decided that these two things were connected.


	2. Act 2

**Wow! Thanks for all the review, favorite, & follow love everyone! Glad you like the story and any future input you have is appreciated! Also, Jeffery, I about broke my throat squealing that a Watsonville resident is actually reading this. Everyone, Jeffery is from the actual real life town of Watsonville, whose roadsign I've passed like 6 times this summer and wanted to visit purely for the name (but I wrote this story instead trolololol). There's also a real life Andersonville, which I was excited about but didn't know if I actually wanted to visit...**

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_Act 2_  
"This City is what it is because our citizens are what they are." -Plato

More months passed. Sherlock's belongings migrated from Lestradeville to Watsonville. His motorbike would gather dust where it was parked due to lack of use and anytime he did travel he did not stay away long. Sometimes Sherlock would bring Watsonville citizens with him, like to solve Lestradeville's puzzles or visit Hooperville or lob spit-wads at Andersonville. One time he got a special dispensation from the violin shop owner to take a violin and he gave the entire Watsonville populace a concert. They had clapped and applauded and called him amazing. Rosebushes were basically taking over the town, creating small gardens everywhere. It made the city more chaotic and Sherlock noticed an increase in other travelers: Lestradeville, Hooperville, and Donovanville citizens milled about the thrift stores, seeming to watch him like they didn't in their own cities. Even some multi-faced Holmesville residents appeared, though as soon as Sherlock approached any of them they disappeared. Sherlock wondered if he should be worried about overcrowding. He wondered if he was ruining something perfect simply by being there and attracting everybody else. Unless Watsonville had a tourist season.

One night Sherlock woke up. It was rare that he did so: here in Watsonville he was gaining a remarkable amount of weight and sleeping whole nights through, usually with a citizen or a rosebush curled nearby. He looked out the window and noticed it was raining. It had never once rained in Watsonville and Sherlock raced outside to see if the town was much changed.

No one seemed to be out as Sherlock careened around. Even the hospital was empty. Sherlock stopped and tilted his head upwards, tasting the rain. But it wasn't rain at all, but varying types of alcohol. Sherlock frowned. He had passed the pub. It was still closed. Perhaps that was because the citizens drank their liquor from the sky?

Sherlock heard a moan. He startled a bit, unused to the noise. It came again and seemed to wrap around him, holding him, egging him onwards. He followed his feet to the oak tree, where a single jagged scar was dripping sap. A figure was nestled in the darkness at the base, huddling out of the rain. Sherlock stepped forward, expecting another citizen. He asked who they were, what they were doing out in the alcohol-rain. Personally he was soaked, but not particularly caring: the alcohol was warm.

The figure on the ground moaned again, but Sherlock saw a finger beckoning him forward. He took a step, but then stopped abruptly, hearing something he hadn't heard before.

_My name is John. And I am spectacularly smashed and not supposed to be here._ Sherlock took another step towards the figure lying down, hoping to provoke it to speak again. _It's alright. I won't hurt you. I'm here, though I'm not supposed to be._

Sherlock asked if the figure was lost.

_No, no. I'm alright, Mr. Holmes. Just...my sister. I didn't know where else to go. I wanted to see you._

Sherlock nearly ran into the figure now, tumbled on top of him, pinning him to the ground. Quick as a wink, a torch was out of his pocket and darting about the man's face. For he wasn't a citizen, with vague, genderless features and a smiling mouth, but solid, like him or Mycroft or Mummy. Was he related then? Was he a traveler too? If he too was a brother, then he'd certainly gotten his alleles from an obscure DNA strand: blonde like the sun and eyes blue like the sky and face tan like the ground in the cactus garden. His face was more lined, his form shorter and compact, his right leg tender with weakness. His breath smelled of the rain and he was staring at Sherlock like the detective had grown two heads.

_Mr. Holmes! Mr. Holmes, it's alright. Calm down or they'll catch me, catch us. I'm sorry I disturbed you. I won't do it again._

Sherlock had no intention of letting the John-stranger go. Cities were interesting, but actual people? Glorious! He then had a flash of insight. He knew this John: he'd seen his face in the sky. Why had that happened?

_You...you can see me? Feel me?_

Sherlock thought this was a stupid question since obviously he could see him if he was pinning him down and not complaining about him being invisible. He hoped that this new being was more intelligent than that. Also, please call him Sherlock. He didn't want to go to Holmesville or be unnecessarily reminded of it.

_But you can see me? What do I look like? Touch my nose. I promise not to run._ The creature took the torch out of Sherlock's hand and shone it back and forth across Sherlock's face. Sherlock wondered if this was some bizarre greeting ritual from where this 'John' was from.

Sherlock obligingly touched John's nose and described him. Perhaps John was the blind one.

_No, no, I can see you...Sherlock. I've been trying to find you for ages. You're very handsome and have the most gorgeous chocolate curls I've ever seen._ John ran a hand through them once and Sherlock practically purred with pleasure. No one had done that since Mummy. How did the John-creature know of Sherlock? What was chasing him that was forcing him to hide in Watsonville?

_What? Oh, you're famous where I come from. Nobody is chasing me._

Sherlock wondered where the John was from and why the John was hiding if nobody was chasing him. Unless a nobody was some sort of species.

The John laughed. _No, nobody means no one. I snuck away from home to come see you. I'm running from home because I don't like it there anymore._ There was a pause. _Could you please get off me?_

Sherlock replied in the negative. Sherlock was full and, the John captured and the oak protecting from the rain, quite sleepy again. John could sneak away while Sherlock was unconscious. In the current position, Sherlock would wake up if John tried to move out from under him. Sherlock asked if John was a traveler and if he would stroke his hair as the roses did.

_I guess I am a traveler. To you, anyway. We all travel in each other's lives. Can I at least get a pillow?_

Sherlock told the John to stay exactly where he was and that Sherlock would get him a pillow and blanket. He dashed off to the nearest building and got them and the John-fellow-traveler was still lying there, waiting. Sherlock was overjoyed. He tucked them both in under the blanket, as his mother used to do with Mycroft and he. John began stroking Sherlock's head and right before he slept again Sherlock murmured that John was not John's sister nor ever will be. He was not weak and Sherlock would take care of him.

Sherlock woke the next day with a tiny yellow rosebush threading next to him, but no John. He panicked, despairing that he had already lost his companion. He ran around, pushing citizens out of the way as he went until he found the John in one of the breakfast cafes and nearly tackled him to the ground in relief. _Sherlock, er, Mr. Holmes, it's alright, it's alright, don't cry._

Sherlock was _not_ crying. He has just been frightened that his newest experiment and exploration had been taken from him and he would be left with the stupid echoing streets again, which were proving more than a match. He babbled to the John that he had worked out than there was probably something underground, a large chamber or sewer perhaps, but Sherlock had yet to uncover an access point down there, though he thought had already explored every clean Watsonville street. The other citizens in the cafe were staring at him as he finished. He glared at them. Obviously they did not understand he and John's relationship as one real person to another.

_That sounds like a good theory, Sherlock._ One of the citizens whispered something in John's ear and Sherlock resisted the urge to slap them away. John narrowed his eyes at them and Sherlock deduced they were from Andersonville. _It's none of your business. It calms him down and he gave me permission._

Sherlock snapped at the Andersonville denizen that John could call him whatever he wanted and it should go fuck a dinosaur. The citizen backed away slowly out of the room. John raised an eyebrow at the citizen's treatment, but then pushed some tea and toast in Sherlock's direction. _Care for a nibble, Sherlock?_

Between bites of breakfast, Sherlock quizzed John on his traveling knowledge: it seems he knew Watsonville the best, followed by Lestradeville, but was acquainted with the rest of Sherlock's usual haunts. He'd never heard of Holmesville and barely tolerated Donovanville and Andersonville. In a gesture that Sherlock hoped would show the depth of his growing want for the John to stay, Sherlock offered to show him Holmesville. John got very excited about that, saying he wanted to go right away. Sherlock said he had to get a few things from his room here and then he could be off. John followed him all the way there, chatting with Sherlock about botany of all things. They were happy until a citizen came in and tapped John on the shoulder. John mentioned having to use the loo and walked away with the citizen. Sherlock finished packing his things and waited on his bed. And waited. And waited. And waited.

It suddenly occurred to Sherlock that the citizen was wearing an elaborate veil to hide their two faces. He heard thunderstorms in the distance.

Sherlock swore. Mycroft. Of course Mycroft, as real people starved as Sherlock was, would steal this one away, even though Sherlock had seen him first. Bastard.

Sherlock grabbed his stuff, jumped on his motorbike, revving it up and zooming away to rescue his John. Holmesville was a lot closer than he remembered and he sped up and down the streets, knowing Mycroft could hear and therefore be annoyed. Sherlock shouted about the all-you-can-eat-buffet and the scarred willow tree. All the citizens seemed to be hiding, preventing Sherlock from approaching one and thus calling Mycroft away from wherever he was keeping John. He deduced which of the twisting white corridors held the room where John and Mycroft were. He banged on it with all his might and shouted for John, threatening bodily self-harm if Mycroft did not return him in the same condition he found him in.

The door quickly opened after that and Sherlock rushed to the John, visually examining him head to foot, gently touching his face to see his eyelashes flutter in response. Satisfied, he threw his arms around the John's neck, snuffling his nose against him, gripping tightly, telling him he had been so worried. The John was surprised, tentatively wrapping his arms around Sherlock to return the gesture, stroking the bottom neck curls. _Why were you worried? It was only your brother. He was concerned about you sleeping under the tree last night._

Sherlock squeezed his eyes shut more tightly and muttered about thunderstorms into John's hair. Sherlock also realized something: per John's diction, he and John were not brothers. John laughed when Sherlock told him his deduction._ I'm not nearly smart enough to be the brother of you or Mycroft._

The fact that Sherlock nodded only made John laugh more. They stood like that a minute longer, before John shifted uncomfortably. _Didn't you want to show me Holmesville? Go on, give me a tour._

Mycroft interrupted. _He promised to show you Holmesville?_

_Yes._

Sherlock opened his eyes in time to see Mycroft arch a tailored eyebrow over the tips of John's blonde head.  
_You are privileged indeed. And perhaps intelligent enough to be a Holmes brother._

Sherlock released John, not wanting to stand another minute of Mycroft. He took John's hand and led him away from his brother's watching gaze. He warned John that the tour might take a while, several days, perhaps a week, depending on the level of detail John wanted to see.

John, of course, wanted to see everything.

Sherlock obliged. John was fascinated, asking all sorts of questions about the details and even noticing some Sherlock had never seen. Every night, Sherlock tucked John and himself in, knowing now that John was an early riser and if Sherlock woke without him to only look in the nearest eatery to find his companion. When Sherlock explained about the thunderstorms, John's face darkened, looking about to thunderstorm himself. The nights after Sherlock explained, John had held Sherlock tightly and even once been there when Sherlock woke up.

Since they were in Mycroft's territory, Sherlock unfortunately saw the man himself every so often. But the weather behaved itself, probably not wanting to harm John.

On the final night of the week, Sherlock had finished describing Holmesville to the John. He was thinking that he should ask John to show him his hometown, a fair exchange for Sherlock showing his family's. He was thinking about how he would ask. John and he were tucked in, John's warm breath evening out into a doze. Sherlock usually fell asleep before John did (Sherlock blamed all the weight he was gaining), but tonight the question bounced around for a long while before Sherlock finally slept.

Only to be rudely awakened mere hours later.

Someone was violently shaking his shoulder as he gasped awake and instantly a gag was placed in his mouth. Sherlock nearly choked and started lashing out, kicking, punching and screaming through the cloth. He rolled off the bed and smacked his forehead against the hard tile floor, making Sherlock see blackness and tiny stars for a moment. He heard John wake with a start and presumably join the effort, jumping up to hit and punch their masked assailants, the crack of knuckles meeting flesh. Sherlock twisted and writhed on the floor, but his attacker put their heavy weight on his legs, pinning him down, forcing his nose into the tiles, strong hands roughly tying Sherlock's arms behind him. Sherlock lost track of John, who was dancing about, still fighting until Sherlock heard a mighty crack and a body dropped to the floor beside him. Sherlock turned his head and saw John, his head bleeding into the rivulets of the tiles. He redoubled his efforts of screaming.

The masked citizens ignored him, tying his legs like he was a trussed up turkey and carrying out of the room and through a maze of sterile white hallways, out a huge set of double doors and into the waiting back of a van.

They drove for miles, in a direction Sherlock had never been. Instead of deserted plains of sand, there were hillocks of grass divided into rectangles by large, bulbous hedges. Occasional livestock was seen, especially sheep. If Sherlock had to pick he'd guess they were going south. For some reason this was connected to the lessoning number of sheep.

The citizens said nothing to him, only grunting to each other in some weird form of pair language. Sherlock was still, wanting to observe everything so as to best aid his eventual escape. Because he would escape and then he would find John. And John would be alright and if he wasn't alright then Sherlock would make him better.

Approximately three hours into their journey, the grunts pulled off the main highway onto a smaller road and then another smaller one after that. They were in a small town with buildings mostly made of bricks. Sherlock saw a train station, a library, a police station, a couple dance clubs, and even a 'video store.' In another situation, Sherlock would have been intrigued by the movie theatre they passed because he had never seen it in any of the other cities and didn't know what it was, much less what the palace of mirrors and lights was used for.

The grunts passed all this, seemingly used to such sights and they were back in the fields. They turned onto a dirt road and pulled up to an abandoned-looking farmhouse. They opened the van's back doors, picked up Sherlock, carried him through the farmhouse's front door, laid him on the velvet living room love seat (made in the 1950s, vintage, first owned by a lady daily doused in Chanel No. 5), and removed his gag. The rest of the house seemed rotted, the floorboards weathered and creaking where anybody stepped. A large, glassless window behind him provided the only sort of light, the moon casting shadows and bright spots throughout the room. The brick fireplace was missing stones and the wind had swept away the ash from any fires long ago. Farther ahead, Sherlock could see a tiled kitchen. The love seat was the newest thing in the building.

Sherlock waited. He knew what was coming. He was not disappointed.

_Hello, my pet. _A man in a Westwood suit stepped out of a blotch of shadows._ A little birdie told me that you've been improving._

Sherlock said hello to Moriarty and that his brainpower was the same as ever.

_No, no, you met someone. You don't often meet new people, do you? Just me and your annoying brother to begin with. Though you remember your mum, don't you?_

Sherlock sat up, trying to gain a bit of dignity. Of course Moriarty wanted a piece of the new person too. Sherlock retorted that Moriarty should leave John out of this because John was his.

Moriarty laughed. _Is that what you call him? 'John?' How informal. He's a doctor, you know. Or did he never tell you that?_

Sherlock stiffened. John didn't have to tell him everything. At least Sherlock wasn't alone like Moriarty or Mycroft, both of whom only had citizens for company.

Moriarty threw back his head and laughed again. _Oh, you are the most alone person I know, my pet. But you could have traveled with me, couldn't you? You took that little doctor to Holmesville where you never let me in. How come, hmmm? What's so special about this insect?_

Sherlock said that he had just finished this one tour of Holmesville and that the next one would be at never o'clock.

_Oh God, you think you're so clever, mapping everything out, seeing all secrets, having your little deductions, but, honey, you haven't been this lucid in years. You know where you are though, don't you? Is this Moriarty City or somewhere else entirely?_

Sherlock knew Moriarty City. It had been one of the first places he'd visited. Utter chaos: a perpetual masquerade, a carnival with rivers of alcohol and no rules, debauchery as easy as dying, ticker-tape for nobody and everybody, filth and wretchedness and shining riches side by side, one day a pauper and next the King of Fools. Moriarty ruled it, organized it, delighted in it. Its puzzles were twisted, intoxicating, splattered with blood. Sherlock had loved it. He realized it was destroying him faster than anybody around him liked. Mycroft had taken him away.

Sherlock said that either Moriarty had been very busy the last few years with cleaning up or he was not in Moriarty City. The former was so unlikely that he thought that every other city would crumble first.

Moriarty just clapped his hands in joy. _Excellent! Excellent! You are listening. We'll have you playing in no time._

Sherlock said he did not want to go back to Moriarty City because he seriously doubted John would like it.

_Don't be so dull, Sherlock. Borrrrriiinnngggg!_ Moriarty stepped closer, picking up Sherlock's chin to force him to look into his empty, twisted brown eyes, the reptilian set of his nose and mouth. Moriarty turned Sherlock's face back and forth as if admiring purchase or perhaps his own reflection. This thought chilled and thrilled Sherlock. Moriarty was chaos and chaos would make life go so much more quickly.

_You're so fragile._ Moriarty leaned closer. _Do you know how delicate I'm being, Sherlock? Do you? One word, one tinsey little phrase could send you spinning to who knows where and erase all the progress you've made._

Sherlock's eyes never left Moriarty's. He asked what progress would that be exactly.

_To become me. I started out like you. A mere traveler. Well, not exactly. But we are the same, Sherlock. You are me._ Moriarty's face split into a manic grin. His thumb reached up to caress Sherlock's cheek but the next minute he slapped Sherlock hard.

_Answer me! Really answer me!_ He hit Sherlock again, punched him in the face. _Defend your miserable, boring life!_  
Sherlock tongued at the place where his mouth was bleeding, spitting out the blood. The blow had knocked his head to face the floor and he let it hang there, not caring to look at Moriarty again or move. He didn't care. He didn't care. He didn't care. This would only make the waiting end faster.

Sherlock squeezed his eyes shut, preparing for Moriarty's next attack. He didn't have long to wait: Moriarty screamed in frustration, punching Sherlock again in the face before pummeling his stomach and kicking his legs. _I'm getting my hands dirty for you: better enjoy it._ Sherlock noticed that Moriarty's breathing was ragged. _I could do anything I wanted to you and you wouldn't care. Take anything. Have anything..._

Moriarty wanted Sherlock think about the implications of his words. Sherlock didn't.

Moriarty seized Sherlock's wrist and bit him hard enough to make the blood spurt up, for the surrounding skin to bruise. _Fight back. I dare you, pet._

Sherlock did nothing, letting the pain wash over him, letting the world get a bit blurrier. He thought he could hear the roar of thunder in the distance, of the gaudy tunes Moriarty City's citizens were subjected with and pretended to like. Sherlock did not open his eyes.

_The cities aren't real! Come back to me, Sherlock Holmes. Become me. I am your fate and nothing else. Fight me or I will destroy John. You will never see him again. Do you understand? My men will kill him, obliterate him from existence!_

Sherlock's eyes snapped open. "Not John," he croaked.

Moriarty, face smeared with Sherlock's own blood, dropped Sherlock's wrist in joy. "I will murder him, Sherlock. In the most brutal way possible. In the way that both you and he fear most."

"No...no!" Sherlock said, widely swinging his still tied hands around, hoping to hit Moriarty. The Irishman jumped back but Sherlock had already pick-pocketed him, taking a knife from the breast pocket of his suit. He swiped the knife forward, forcing Moriarty to back up more least he get hit and Sherlock used the time to slice open the bonds on his feet and hands.

"You need me, Sherlock! I'm your chaos. You crave me. You will become me: it's inescapable, as inexorable as death."  
"You will not touch him." Sherlock held the knife towards Moriarty, his feet moving into a stance he hoped was good for balance, trying to make himself seem far more formidable than he actually was. "He is mine."

Moriarty just looked at him, the moonlight making his terrible eyes glow against the crimson streaked on him mouth. The world seemed to take a breath.

"He is no one's."

Then everything went black.


	3. Act 3

**Thanks for all the love! Onward!**

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_Act 3_  
"The greatest artist has no conception which a single block of white marble does not potentially contain within its mass, but only a hand obedient to the mind can penetrate to this image." -Michelangelo

Sherlock woke up in Watsonville with the taste of cotton in his mouth. Sherlock did not like it. He did not see John. He was alone except for the citizen that was obviously just outside his door, spying. He started screaming until something pulled him under again.

When Sherlock next woke up, everything seemed sharper. His wrist hurt underneath the gauze bandage and sunlight streamed through the window. The low thread count sheets scratched a bit, but were warmly wrapped around him. A needle was in his arm, pumping in fluids Sherlock probably did not want. Sherlock heard someone shift into a chair close by. Someone coughed.

Sherlock's eyes flew open onto John. John, who was sitting in a lab coat next to his bedside. He had been moved to the Watsonville hospital, he realized. The heart monitor bleeped loudly. John smiled and took Sherlock's hand from under the blanket, giving it a squeeze.

_Hey._

Sherlock returned the greeting.

_How are you feeling?_

Sherlock said that he was glad John was here. He squeezed John's hand tightly.

_Can you answer a few questions for me?_ Sherlock nodded. For the next five minutes, John asked rather dull questions about Sherlock's identity and location. He had done this every so often during the course of their friendship, as if seeking reassurance of reality. As Sherlock answered, John's smile seemed to falter, his eyes swimming with some unknown emotion. _Good then. Looks like you're alright, Sherlock._

Sherlock wanted to know that the emotion in John's eyes was. He asked if perhaps John had lost something. _No, no. I'm...glad you're back is all. Gave us quite a scare._

Sherlock's eyes wandered to the bandage on John's head. He reached out and lightly ran a hand through it and the surrounding hair, letting his fingers play with the fine strands. Sherlock remarked that Moriarty had hurt John. This was not allowed.

John's eyelids fluttered. _We gave them a good fight though, didn't we. But he was a bit tough in the end. Let's stay away from him. Not travel there._

A black cloud suddenly came over Sherlock's heart, a clenching sensation, a fear. He told John to come here.

_The other people will see us. It's not very professional, Sherlock._

Sherlock told John to stop being an idiot and to close the fucking door. John gave a weak laugh, got up, closed and locked the door, took off his lab coat, and slipped in besides Sherlock. Sherlock tucked both of them in and touched his forehead to John's. "You're not allowed to disappear."

John startled. Sherlock wrapped himself around the shorter man, soaking in his warmth and solidness, letting the pleasant hum of the Watsonville wash over him, the soothing buzz of its citizens and roses. He fell asleep.

But the next day, it took Sherlock longer than usual to find John. He had woken alone in the hospital and wandered its empty corridors near an hour before finding his companion. The ground floor still echoed and the mystery of it still called out to Sherlock to solve. Perhaps he and John would investigate it today. Or perhaps go to Lestradeville and solve some puzzles. Just a dose of normalcy before they went off to John's hometown. Because surely John would take him there now.

Once they were together, Sherlock asked John for his opinion on the day's activities and John said to leave the echoing alone and that they should go to Lestradeville for puzzles.

Sherlock feared John had a cold or some other disease that was inhibiting his vocal chords. John's voice was muffled, vague, almost indistinct as if Sherlock was hearing it underwater. He told John this and John's eyes went wide with surprise and probably fear. Sherlock did not want John to lose his voice either. Sherlock took his hand and led him to a cafe, feeding John tea and telling him to talk to Sherlock, say something, anything, just get his vocal chords lubricated and working.

John did as Sherlock asked and started telling Sherlock the intricacies of rugby. But as he spoke, his voice only grew duller, fading until Sherlock could only make out the vibrations. As if, instead of rising to the surface to better hear John, Sherlock had swum deeper, putting more aqueous distance between him and the John creature. No, no, his name was John. He was a traveler, human, like Sherlock. Not a creature or a stranger. But then John's talking faded to silence. Sherlock watched John's lips move in speech without any sound coming out for a full twenty minutes before telling John what had happened.

John was alarmed. He started moving around, gesturing, leading Sherlock back to the hospital. The clouds of Watsonville were turning stormy, uncertain, dark. John was tugging Sherlock by the wrist, pulling him. Sherlock felt sluggish. The humidity was increasing rapidly, making it so Sherlock could drink the air instead of breathe it.  
John's image flickered.

That got Sherlock moving. He tackled the John to the ground, twisting so as to hit his head against the concrete instead of John's. John started gesturing wildly, putting a hand to Sherlock's head to staunch the blood flow. Citizens gathered around. John flickered again.

No no no no nononononononono.

John's person was going like a worn out light blub. As one citizen bandaged Sherlock's head, John faded in and out, dimming and brightening until, with one last desperate look at Sherlock's face, John was gone. Sherlock was clutching at empty air.

Sherlock said goodbye.

Citizens made Sherlock eat his meals for the rest of the day and sleep at night. In the morning, Sherlock went to the oak tree where he had first met the John. He stayed here, hoping against hope John would come back. He didn't.

He didn't the next day either. Or the next. Or the next after that.

Watsonville seemed to grow in population or perhaps it had been decreasing and was now back to normal levels. Red roses grew all around the oak. All the details of the buildings grew sharper, more distinct. Maybe Sherlock needed vision correction.

Eventually, Sherlock left. He left a few of his things there, but most was packed up onto his motorbike and taken back to Lestradeville, much to the Andersonville and Donovanville citizens' derision. At least the puzzles were there to distract him. On the first puzzle the citizens gave him, the case file had the words 'every action has an equal and opposite reaction' in a resigned sort of handwriting. Somehow that was relevant.

Three months passed. He was a traveler: he traveled. He went to new cities like the feminized, luscious, wealthy, and slightly deceitful Adlerville and the melancholic, nervous Baskerville. They had puzzles for him, tiny little problems that intrigued and distracted him, kept him from getting bored. But he couldn't shake the question of Watsonville, of the comfort it had given him, or how from it the John companion had inexplicably sprung. John would have enjoyed the Adlerville and Baskerville puzzles. Sherlock hadn't solved the echo. Upon occasion, Sherlock would stop whatever he was doing, stand very still, reach out a foot, and tap the ground a few times. Just to make sure it wasn't a recurrent phenomenon.

On the four month mark, Sherlock decided that he would go back to Watsonville. Lestradeville had temporarily run out of puzzles, he had no experiments to tend to, and it wasn't the right weather to play the violin. He thought he had glimpsed Mycroft in Lestradeville and now it was too sunny.

He couldn't find it.

Driving back to Lestradeville, he stopped a couple citizens to ask for directions. They seemed surprised that he wanted to go back there, after all that had happened, but refused to help him (they obviously knew the location but weren't telling: interesting). He tried to find Moriarty City, the unsavory characters inhabiting it perhaps knowing and telling more. He tried to find the Place of the Green Hills, as he'd come to call the place Moriarty had taken him. He couldn't. It was as if all three locations had been wiped off the map.

Sherlock increased his search area. He re-explored every known inch of Lestradeville, looking for clues. He found an address on a file for a 'Dr. John Hamish Watson' but the location was gibberish to him. He showed it to a group of citizens, even plying the father-like ones for sympathy, but they snatched the paper out of his hands, yelled at him for peeping in other people's files, and threw him in jail for a day.

He visited Hooperville, which he hadn't done in a long time. It was one of the first cities he'd explored after leaving Holmesville and had actually given him directions to Lestradeville. However, the citizens there would tell him nothing, even if he flirted with them. He had much the same results in Holmesville and with Mycroft, who only asked him about his health.

As a last peaceable effort, he rode to Andersonville and Donovanville, but they shut the gates in his face.

So he repeated his previous actions, but with a little help.

First, he paid a visit to Adlerville, calling in a favor that the important members of its populace owed him. Through the said favor and other persuasion, they listed the exact cause of Sherlock's run in with Watsonville: his boredom with the presented mysteries, the new violent tendency of blowing up infrastructure, Lestradeville being overburdened other citizens and duties, Andersonville and Donovonville wanting to rid themselves of Sherlock's presence. Not exactly directions as the crow flies and he despised that they implied that Lestradeville was in control of where he visited. Preposterous. Sherlock took them into account though.

Sherlock had noted that the Lestradeville citizens listened to Adlerville's with curious interest, which always disgruntled Mycroft for some reason. He led a march of Adlerville citizens to the highest echelons of Lestradeville, all recommending that Sherlock be given access to Watsonville, that he was (of course) ready to see it again, that Sherlock wanted to see John. Sherlock said he was bored. Sherlock said he had thought about blowing up more infrastructure. Sherlock said that if he went to Watsonville, Lestradeville would have more time for Mycroft. Sherlock said he hated Andersonville and Donovanville and that they smelled like male deodorant. As icing to the cake, Sherlock calmly stated that he knew how to pick the lock on the Roof Access door on the tallest Lestradeville building and that if he did not see John again he would absolutely jump. Then the waiting would certainly end.

That made all the citizens' faces blanch and pale. He was scheduled to go on his motorbike in the morning.  
The following day, just as the sun was hitting midmorning, Sherlock touched Watsonville soil.

Being back, however, made Sherlock feel empty. There was no John here. For some reason he thought John would be here, waiting for him, offering him a cup of tea, reading the newspaper, following him around while he explored. The streets echoed louder than ever. The citizens were wary of him, keeping away. There were no more roses. Sherlock bought a beige cable-knit jumper, put in on under his coat, sat on the street corner, and hugged his knees to his chest. He allowed himself to remain so for an hour, but then he stood. He had come here for a reason. There was a puzzle to solve and a friend to be found.

Sherlock scoured Watsonville relentlessly. Everyday he was up at dawn, quizzing citizens, examining the spoiled fruits of the trees, studying the whorls of the oak. He ate when food was put in front of him and cleaned up when a water closet happened to be nearby. Sometimes the city itself seemed to think he went too far, quaking and shaking, and yelling. But Sherlock was determined. The echoing grew louder. The thought occurred that John's whereabouts might be connected to it. Where else could he be? If he wasn't here in Watsonville, he was in his (damn it) hometown, which Sherlock didn't even know the name of. The source of the echoing seemed like the only thing Sherlock hadn't seen in the city. Ergo, if John was here at all, he would be there.

Sometimes, Sherlock thought he heard voices far away. It was again like he was underwater, some cadence of notes playing above him, their barest bass vibrations only making it to his ears.

Sherlock had the idea to re-create the circumstances in which he met John. But no matter how late he stayed up (sometimes the whole night through), it never rained. Watsonville was still at night, nothing at all happening.  
All this searching was getting him nowhere. Sherlock went on a hunger strike.

Once it realized what was happening, Watsonville's distress was immediately apparent. Hordes of citizens brought Sherlock food, which he refused no matter how good it smelled or how favorite the dish. They brought him fans to cool him, IVs to stick in his arms (which Sherlock pulled out). Some citizens physically assaulted him: shaking him whilst verbally insulting his intelligence. He drank tea with sugar, which kept him from dying of thirst, but the caffeine also made his nervous system go berserk, his heart skipping beats.

He promised the citizens he would continue to do this until John appeared (preferable) or they showed him the echoing (less preferable but interesting and could lead to John).

The earth quaked, the trees shook, a fierce wind howled, the sun scorched. Citizens from other towns tried to interfere. Sherlock enlisted Adlerville to prevent them.

Finally, finally, _finally_, it rained. Sherlock ran outside. Show me!

He ran to the oak tree and a voice seemed to boom down like thunder, clear this time, ringing in Sherlock's ears. The very city seemed to be speaking.

_Is it really so bloody important to you? Is that all you care about? The fucking goddamn puzzle of what I fear? What I don't want any other bloody person to know? And it's not because of me, but because you can't fucking deduce it on your own? How dare you! How dare-!_

Sherlock felt a seizing sensation on his forearms. _Why do you care? Why? Why do I even care? I should have refused-_

Sherlock wondered if this was a sign of John coming back. He grasped wildly into the rain in front of him, trying to grab whatever entity of John would manifest.

_No! You don't get to. You know what? Fine! You want to know my secrets? Here you go!_

The ground rumbled. Sherlock ran to the oak, shouting John's name, hoping the city would understand. I'm trying to find John! Sherlock was drenched, soaking and shivering, dizzy with lack of food. The ground split open in front of him, cracking and breaking to form an underground passage. _I'm right here, you idiot! Let me tell you. Let me show you my monsters._

_Wake up!_

As Sherlock descended, the sounds of the city's last message chased after him. Sherlock remembered what Moriarty said. How he too had shouted at Sherlock. How he said the cities weren't real.


	4. Act 4

**Hello poppets! Thanks for all the reviews, favs, and follows! Makes me so happy! Here's the second-to-last act and basically an end to your guessing. Remember, if you have any questions, please PM me. Or review. Reviews are good. Interestingly, if you lot are looking for background music, reading this chapter while listening to Meg & Dia's 'Monster' on repeat makes it way more intense.**

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_Act 4_  
"We do not have to visit a madhouse to find a disordered mind; our planet is the mental institution of the universe." -Johann Wolfgang von Goethe

Sherlock was still shivering when the stairs stopped. He was underground about 10 feet, not very far from the surface at all. The walls were made of dirt, crumbling stuff. It was completely dark. Sherlock took a step forward and tripped on a silver torch.

He stumbled forward, smacking his head against the opposite wall (so narrow!) and the flashlight skidded away to his left. Rubbing his head a bit, he dropped to his hands and knees, palming at the ground until he retrieved the torch. He switched it on.

Flashing the beam about, he could see the stairs emptied into a small entranceway and split off into two passageways: one to the right and the other to the left. So underneath Watsonville was a maze. Interesting.

Sherlock could still hear the rain outside, pattering, drowning on. He could go back and get supplies. He could wait until morning. He hadn't eaten in days and neglected to bring any tea. Equally, this passage might close up at any point with him inside of it or, worse, outside of it.

Sherlock clutched at his jumper once and then took the passage to the left.

Sherlock walked in the darkness, his small torch lighting up the narrow way. It was warm down here, almost as warm as the hottest of Watsonville days and he stopped shivering within minutes. After a few more minutes, the passage opened up to a small chamber, widening out until continuing onwards. Sherlock shined the flashlight around.

It was full of bones. Orderly stacked, thigh bones around skulls, each skull bearing a small tag with a name, a date of birth, relationship to a John Hamish Watson, and date and cause of death.

This isn't a maze, Sherlock realized, but a set of catacombs. A twisting tomb. He walked onwards and the trail of bones continued.

Sherlock didn't read them all. He didn't really want to. Some of the ones had been killed directly by this John: a sniper bullet or a planted bomb or what have you. Others had died in hospitals, patients with untreatable conditions, people not seen fast enough, the mentally disturbed who had taken their own lives. Still others seemed unrelated: family members of the other dead whose demise John deemed connected with his own deeds. A few were Watson family members.

His John. Watsonville. Dr. John Hamish Watson. All three were blending together. Perhaps Watsonville was John's hometown, perhaps he was in charge of it, had founded and built it. Perhaps, now that the city was finished, he had become a traveler or worked in some obscure corner of Lestradeville where Sherlock had not been or had deemed too boring to notice. But why would he lie to Sherlock? When would John have been this doctor solider?

Sherlock kept walking.

The path widened more, routes splitting off and leading elsewhere. Sherlock scratched on the walls to keep track of his passage, letting a hand stay on the wall at all times so to make sure he didn't lose himself. He walked for an hour or more before he heard the first howl.

And then he heard another and another and another. There was a wolf under Watsonville? The howls got closer. Sherlock heard a growl and snuffling. He broke into a run, trying to keep his hand on the wall, darting down the passages. He heard a bark, seemingly ten feet behind him and the heavy footfalls of an enormous canine. Sherlock ran faster, faster, faster until he was suddenly falling, the ground dropping away and him drowning in a slightly viscous solution. He clamped his mouth shut, his skin prickling with the cold as he flailed. He kicked his legs and arms about until he broke the surface, taking a gasp of air. The dog whined pitifully, sad to be denied its dinner, and Sherlock raised the torch out of the water and looked back to see it pace the bank.

It really was a huge beast, with glowing yellow eyes and pinned back ears, pawing at the ground with giant feet the size of bicycle tires. It bared large, sharp teeth at Sherlock, snorting through huge nostrils, and gave a high-pitched yowl before skulking away.

Sherlock swam away from the wolf's bank. How far did the pool go? He shone the flashlight at whatever he was swimming in and saw another embankment approximately 100 meters ahead. It also identified the liquid as red and, by slipping some into his mouth, Sherlock confirmed that it was blood. Sherlock was swimming in other people's life-force.

Sherlock wondered why John did this to himself, keeping something like this here in the heart of his city. John was a good man, wasn't he? Hadn't Sherlock told him so? Maybe not explicitly, but with actions? By tucking him in every night like mothers' did. By wanting to be around him. By telling him stories of other cities and of himself. By hugging him, not letting him go, telling him to stay? Those were ways Mummy had shown her love for Sherlock. That was how Sherlock had known he was loved, that he was good, that he was worthwhile. Perhaps, like Sherlock, John's mother had died and all those ways had stopped and John had forgotten them. Good thing Sherlock had remembered.  
At least, that's what Sherlock said when he pulled himself out of the pool of blood and shook out droplets of crimson from his clothing.

He decided that was enough for the night. By his watch it was nearly sunrise and the catacombs were certainly getting warmer, though Sherlock didn't know if that was due to the above sun or some part of the puzzle of the place. He decided to sleep here, near the blood pool and therefore away from the dog. He hoped it had been the pool of blood that had turned the dog away from chasing him and not what was on the other side of it. As long as it did not have too silent of feet, then Sherlock could easily roll back into the blood. So Sherlock settled down, enjoying the dry warmth of the cave and letting himself and his clothes dry while he recited different types and individual characteristics of wrist-watches to himself. Once he was sufficiently not wet, he wrapped himself in his coat. The last thing he saw before shutting off the torch was the beginnings of a rose bush breaking through the ground.

When Sherlock woke the darkness confused him for a minute before he remembered where he was. He clicked on the torch, thanking whatever company was responsible for its batteries. Sherlock shone the light around, checking the blood pool was the same and that no one had joined him while he slept.

A citizen walked out of the catacomb wall. Sherlock nearly jumped out of his skin. Well, that was interesting.  
The citizen looked like any other, though it was holding a breakfast tray of tea, a glass of orange juice, and toast (liberally spread with butter). A slightly apologetic smile grew on its face when Sherlock touched it to test solidity. It was, in fact, solid as was the food it was carrying. Minding the growing rose bush, it sat down next to Sherlock and put the food tray on his lap. Pointing at the food to Sherlock, it indicated that Sherlock was supposed to eat. Sherlock did.

That done, Sherlock got up to continue his journey. The citizen took the empty tray, disappeared through the wall as if this was an everyday occurrence, and then walked back through to follow beside Sherlock. It smiled a little to itself.  
Sherlock asked what on earth the citizen thought it was doing.

The citizen said it was following Sherlock.

Sherlock asked why.

The citizen said because it could and wanted to. Watsonville wanted it to.

Sherlock wondered how a city could want something.

The citizen was a smart ass and said how did anything want anything. It just did.

Moriarty's shout that the cities aren't real echoed in Sherlock's brain.

The catacomb was eerily quiet. It made Sherlock think something was lying in wait. The citizen was humming happily next to him. Sherlock wished it would be quiet or at least make useful noises. Sherlock wondered how much it knew. Without looking at its face, he quietly asked if the citizen knew where John was.

The citizen stopped walking and humming. The pleasant mood it exuded seemed to deflate. Sherlock's eyes widened as the citizen actually spoke. _John is here. Whenever you're in Watsonville, John is here._

Sherlock's head whipped around to look the citizen up and down. There was nothing special about it, just a downturned mouth and sloped shoulders. Sherlock said he did not see John so John was not here.

The citizen smiled sadly. _He's here, Sherlock. Why don't you believe me?_

Sherlock was angry that the citizen was being so difficult. _Why are you lying?_ Sherlock asked. _If he's here then show him to me!_

The citizen pointed down the tunnel. _You're making excellent progress. I guess we should continue the story, the monsters. We won't stop until you find him, I promise. No more giving up._ The citizen placed a hand on Sherlock's arm, squeezed it reassuringly. _You're impossible, you know that?_

The citizen's image wavered and then disappeared. Sherlock barely had time to contemplate this strange behavior before he heard a roaring from up ahead. _JOHN! HARRIET! COME HERE TO GET YOUR PUNISHMENT. I'LL TEACH YOU TO SASS. TEACH YOU TO ACT LIKE A MAN!_

Sherlock shone the torch around the corner. He turned to find a huge, slobbering man, a brown beer bottle in one hand and a belt in another. He was almost cartoonish with his yellow eyes. His dirty blonde hair was matted, dirt rimmed all his fingernails. He saw Sherlock and stumbled forward, grabbling at him. Sherlock darted away, switching off the torch to bathe them in dark.

_Where are you? Show yourself, you piece of shit! No hidin'!_ He stumbled about, cracking his belt like a whip. Sherlock pressed himself to the side of tunnel, barely breathing. _I know you're 'ere!_

The man started punching the wall at random. _I know you're 'ere, I know you're 'ere! I KNOW YOU'RE 'ERE!_ The man blundered some more, his breathing growing ragged. When he was close, Sherlock stuck his foot out and the man tripped, falling and sprawling on the floor. The man spit. _You're not worth it, you filthy little kids._

Sherlock wondered if he should slip past the drunkard or confront him. Sherlock's curiosity got the better of him and he crouched down, feeling his way up to the drunk's face. The smell of alcohol filled his nose. He switched on the torch.  
The man had an arm over his face. _Leave me alone. Shove off!_

Sherlock tugged the belt and bottle out of his unprotesting hands. _What is your connection to Watsonville?_

_I am Watsonville!_ the man bellowed, his arm flying away from his face. Sherlock startled away because the drunk's face was no longer unfamiliar. It was John's. He was crying.

_John!_ Sherlock threw his arms around the man, filing away the drunk's outburst for later analysis. He held John tightly. Sherlock noticed the clothes he wore were too big for him. Had John not been eating either?

John's voice was surprised. _You can see me?_

_Have you been looking for me for ages again? I've been looking. I never forgot you._

_You're an absolute prat, you know that?_ John said affectionately. _Now, Sherlock, listen to me. Where are we? What does it look like?_

Sherlock sat up, peering at John's face. _Are you blind? Has someone done something to you? I'll kill them. I'll destroy-_

_No, no, Sherlock, nothing like that. Just answer the questions._

_We're in the catacombs under Watsonville. It's dark except for the torch. You were previously a drunk man. Is Watsonville your hometown? Do control it? Is this why the pub is boarded up because drunkenness is frightening to you?_

_Being drunk isn't frightening. The history of alcoholism in my family is frightening. I don't want to become that. It scares me that Harry is becoming that and she bloody won't let me help._

_Harry is your sister. You spoke of her the first time we met._

_Yes. God, I've missed you being this coherent._

Sherlock's confusion must have showed on his face. _You're speaking like Moriarty. He said I hadn't been lucid in years._

John's eyes widened. He placed his hands on either side of Sherlock's face and spoke slowly and carefully, pronouncing each word. _Sherlock, Moriarty is right. The cities aren't real. I'm real. Your surroundings are not. Think about it. Question it._

Sherlock bristled. _How is that possible? All I've known is the cities. It is the world._

_I'm afraid not. Remember, Sherlock: you've got to remember! Before the cities, you lived in London and you were a consulting detective. Moriarty kidnapped you and then your mind-_

_No!_ Sherlock pulled his head away. He pressed his heels of his hands to his eyes. _No! I am a traveler! I travel to different cities! In between is desert. Before that I lived in Holmesville with my mother in the garden._

John scrambled up, taking hold of Sherlock's arms, trying to pull them away from his face._ No, Sherlock, no, you've reinterpreted past memories to fit. Please don't relapse. Please, love, please don't do this. It's alright, let go, no one here is going to hurt you._

John's hands on his arm suddenly weakened. Sherlock, confused, put his hands down in time to see John begin to flicker. _No!_ he shouted, lunging forward to try to grab him. _Don't go!_

But Sherlock landed in the dirt. All that was left of John were his clothes. Sherlock pounded a fist against the ground. _Damn it! Damn it to hell!_

Against his will, a sob escaped. His left hand clutched at his jumper. He stood, shaking a little. John wasn't here and the only way to go was forward. Sherlock continued. He thought about how he was waiting for death. John often made him forget that.

At some point, the citizen returned with food. Sherlock wasn't sure it was the same one since same-city citizens were relatively indistinguishable. It offered him tea. _Maybe I was a little harsh, wasn't I?_ it said. _I apologize._

_You? What did you do?_

The citizen fidgeted a bit. _Showed you the alcoholic. Told you everything wasn't real. You weren't ready to hear that._

_John said he was real._

_He is._

_Are you controlling what I see?_

The citizen tilted its head. _Yes, in a manner of speaking._

_You're just a citizen. What makes you so important?_

_All the citizens are important. They are people or manifestations of them. I can't figure out what makes them a manifestation or a person. The drunk, for instance. He was a manifestation of John's fear of ending up like his father: a violent alcoholic who takes his self-hate out on his children._

_What are you? A manifestation or a person?_

_A person._

_Who?_

The citizen smiled. _I don't want to push you too much just now. Let's just leave it at that. Why...Why don't you sleep now, Sherlock? It's been a long day and you're still a bit weak from not eating. Finish your dinner, by the way._

All the observations and information were jumbled about in Sherlock's head. The manifestation-drunk saying he was Watsonville, the citizen saying it controlled Watsonville but also took orders from it, Watsonville being connected to John, again someone saying the cities weren't real, that Sherlock's reality was false. The citizens weren't all people. Some manifested fear or, Sherlock imagined, other emotional phenomenon. Was the world going mad? Was Sherlock? Sherlock acted like a detective in Lestradeville and John had called him a consulting detective. Whatever that was.

Sherlock slumped against the side of a wall, letting himself slide down to the floor. The citizen handed him food item after food item and Sherlock just shoved it into his mouth, uncaring. He was soon drifting off. The citizen reached over and turned off the torch._ I'll keep watch, Sherlock. Good night._

Sherlock's last thought was whether he could trust anyone, even John.

When Sherlock woke up, the citizen was still there, though it had obviously left at some point since it had a new tray of food. _Good morning,_ it said.

_Is it morning? I can't tell down here._ Sherlock said.

The citizen frowned. _It's 9am on the dot. You're a very exact sleeper._

_Are you observing my sleep patterns? Do you sleep?_

_I sleep, just not while you're awake._

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at him. _Why?_

_I just like to be there when you wake up._

_Scared I'll 'relapse?'_

The citizen frowned. _Honestly yes._

The citizen put the food tray on Sherlock's lap. _Why don't you eat breakfast, Sherlock? You'll feel better and then we can continue the story._

_Is John at the end of the story?_

_For both our sakes, let's hope so._

_Are you looking for him too?_ If so, John was certainly a wanted man. His presence had turned Sherlock and all of Sherlock's acquaintances into tizzies.

The citizen tilted its head. _No. I know where he is. But you've got to get to him yourself. Now less questions and more eating breakfast please._

Sherlock grumbled about Watsonville's general obsession with making him eat whilst eating the admittedly good breakfast. The pieces of toast were accompanied by two salted fried eggs.

When he finished, the citizen collected his tray, pointed him onwards, and disappeared through the wall without a word.

_Not as friendly as last time, are you?_ Sherlock walked. It was growing increasingly hot and stuffy. Sherlock was forced to take off his coat, draping it over his arm. After a while he noticed his fingers were swelling with dehydration. He called to the citizen to give him water, but nothing happened. Sherlock began to get slightly dizzy. The catacombs opened up into a wide chamber, Sherlock unable to see the ceiling with his torch. He huffed, running a hand through his sweaty hair. _Hello?_

Something scuffled to his left. _Citizen?_

It was a nice thought, but the citizen didn't scuffle. Suddenly, a shot rang out. Sherlock switched off the torch and took off, zig-zagging to the right, one hand against the wall and another in front of his face to make sure he didn't smack into anything. The shot turned into a machine gun fire, rat-ta-tating at Sherlock's heels. They made little sparks in the dark, making Sherlock see little white spots ahead of him. He ran, not caring his direction, just wanting to find a hiding place, any hiding place. _The cities aren't real. I'm real, Your surroundings are not_, John had said.

Sherlock was panting with the effort of running. If his surroundings weren't real than someone was manipulating them. The citizen? Himself? John? Since he couldn't control John or the citizen, Sherlock concentrated. He would change his own surroundings. He closed his eyes and concentrated hard, bitting his lips. Change, change, change! Stop shooting. Your gun has run out.

Sherlock felt incredibly dizzy. The world seemed to pitch forward and back, whiplashing Sherlock and causing him to stumble down and let go of the wall. The room seemed to lighten a bit: a city at night instead of the complete darkness of underground. Impossibly, fog was rolling in, dropping the temperature and making Sherlock's skin prickle with familiarity. The ground turned smooth and hard: concrete and asphalt. The gunfire stopped.

Sherlock regained his footing and set off at a run, hoping to find the room's edge in the dark. He pounded onward and realized that someone was chasing him, matching his footsteps. Sherlock ducked as something flew through the air at him, missing the top of his head by inches. Sherlock's breath was ragged, panting, filling his ears. He sprinted for what seemed like block after block, his assailant not coming any closer but still so audibly there.

Huffing and puffing, Sherlock had to stop. Gulping for air, he stood, angling himself sideways to his pursuer so as to present the smallest target. _Who are you? Why are you chasing me?_ he called.

There was a silence until: _I want you_.

Sherlock barely had time to process this before some shadow flashed in glowing fog-dark grabbing him by the neck from behind, choking his airways. Sherlock collapsed downward, jutting out his hip hoping to dislodge the attacker, but instead it pulled him all the way forward and downward on the floor. Sherlock's head seemed to crack against the asphalt.

Seeing stars, he felt the torch torn from his hand and a weight settle on his legs, vises let go of his throat to grip his forearms, some weird creature leaning over him. _I want you and your blood all over me._

Sherlock lay perfectly still. _Why?_

_What do you mean why? Because you're beautiful and you're going to whether you want to or not! I have the power! All of it!_

Suddenly the creature disappeared with a wisp of fog. The room lightened more. Sherlock sat up, shaken but unharmed. Something was shifting out there, flickers of something, shouts and voices blending together in cacophony.  
Sherlock saw films play out against the fog. John was in them. John was leading a military squad into a firefight, John was shooting and killing everyone, John was saving all his friends when they were shot, John was bathing in blood, stacking the bones into a throne. John was commander, John was dictator, John was controlling the whole country. Dissents were executed, beautiful women were fawning over John, John was fucking every single one of them. John's body was fit with defined muscles, John was gorging himself and still fit, John was bringing people back from the dead. The camera panned out and revealed John's country, which was a lot like Moriarty City, but with cleaner streets.

_Ah,_ _John feels powerless sometimes. He wishes for power._ Sherlock said this revelation aloud. The film stuttered and stopped. _Hello?_

Sherlock walked on, still lost. He heard a crying in the dark. He walked towards it until he saw a dark shape against the white, something slumping against the wall. It was almost daylight, bright as a very foggy morning. _Why are you crying?_

The thing against the wall just sniffled. _Leave me alone_.

Sherlock stepped closer. Against the wall was John in a military field outfit. He was clutching a dead man to him, the man's eyes glassy and a bullet through his brain. But Sherlock paid him little attention because blood was pouring out of John, out of his shoulder. He rushed forward, pressing his hands against the wound to staunch the blood flow. _John! John, what's wrong?_

_I couldn't save him, I couldn't, I couldn't._

_John, never mind the dead man. Don't pity the dead, John. Pity the poor souls who are living. The ones who are still waiting. John, tell me what to do. John, you're bleeding!_

_I can never save them. The whole squad died. Harry's going to die and I can't. And you're going to disappear._

_I'm not disappearing, John. Tell me how to save you!_

_Hopeless, hopeless._ John was paling, his eyelids ashy gray as he closed him. _I want to die. There's no point to my life. No one. If I died this minute no one would even fucking mourn, only be surprised._

_John, if you die on me I will be seriously cross._

_You're mad: if I die, you won't care. You'll get a new doctor._

That made Sherlock blanched. _Explain._

The dying John laughed. _You're absolutely mental! Your mind created this wonderful, wonderful delusion. So brilliant. The best case I've ever had._

Sherlock decided to play along. _What is my delusion?_

_When you were a detective, you had this mind palace in order to remember everything. You were a brilliant detective: first class. Really a class of your own actually. You were in the papers. I read about you in the papers._

_What happened?_ The back of Sherlock's neck was prickling. All that John was saying seemed familiar, like he knew it already. He knew how this story ended.

_You were on a case with that Detective Inspector Gregson and then inexplicably disappeared. You were gone almost two years. Most had given you up for dead._

_But I'm not dead._

_One morning you were dropped off at the police station. Literally. The police woke up to you packaged on their doorstep. The papers had a field day. A letter was attached to you, explaining that you were suffering from an unbreakable delusion. The detectives figured out that Jim Moriarty, that one bloke you were always ranting about, the Napoleon of Crime, had captured you. He tortured you and to survive you went into your mind palace. But you went too far, Sherlock. Much too far. I suppose it's because no one saved you, made him stop. He broke you, Sherlock. I suppose he was happy at first, but realized he couldn't get you back._

John's breathing was deepening, his voice going softer. Sherlock just stared at him, transfixed by the story.

_Moriarty probably had a crack at fixing you, but someone like him is much better at destruction. On his note on you when he dropped you off his last words were "Fix him." What kind of an arrogant arse-hole does that? Thank God after his slip-up-when he kidnapped you from the hospital-Mycroft found him and shot him in the brain himself. Your brother is pretty impressive actually, if a bit of a sod. _John weakly grinned, crinkling his eyes open at Sherlock._ It's alright, Sherlock. _He raised a hand to cup Sherlock's face, stroking his cheek with his thumb._ It's alright._

Sherlock lifted one hand from John's shoulder, placing it over John's hand, keeping him there. He trembled as he turned his nose into John's palm and nuzzled. He shut his eyes and spoke, "You didn't answer the question, John. What is my delusion?"

"Are you ready for that?"

"Yes. I assume you're my doctor and understand what it is."

"Instead of people, you see cities. Lestradeville is Dr. Greg Lestrade. He's head of the mental hospital. Andersonville and Donovanville are your frankly incompetent nurses, Anderson and Donovan."

"And you are Watsonville."

"Yes."

"What about the others? Adler and Baskerville? Hooperville?"

"Dr. Molly Hooper is a GP you visited when you were first returned. Dr. Irene Adler is another specialist doctor like me. Henry Baskerville was a patient. You helped cure him. You're absolutely wonderful. You lay your deductions out like a map, as different city edifices. It's fascinating."

"The citizen is also you. This is all you."

"Yes." John sounded excited now. Color was returning to his cheeks, the military uniform was melting away to reveal a doctor's white coat, the dead body disappearing. "Yes, Sherlock. Let go of the palace. Come back."

Sherlock breathed into John's palm. In a small voice he said, "You're real though? I don't have to give up you."

"I'm real, Sherlock."

"And you won't leave? When I'm better you won't go?"

Sherlock gripped John's hand and turned his face to see John's reaction. John wasn't bleeding anymore and Sherlock's hands were clean. It was just a memory, then. John's worst memory from when he was in the war in Afghanistan. "I'll be here, Sherlock."

"How long have I been like this?" The world was getting lighter, a sterile, white light emanating. Sherlock smelled antiseptic.

John's smile faltered. "Nearly a decade."

Sherlock closed his eyes. The world was shifting, his body position no longer crouched but lying down on scratchy sheets. John's hand was still there though, still against Sherlock's cheek.

"I'm sorry." The world seemed to be spinning, twisting and turning and aligning in some shape. Sherlock felt lighter and heavier all at once. The temperature was approximately 75 degrees. The stifling coldness of the fog was gone.

"It's not your fault."

The world was still and quiet.

Sherlock opened his eyes. He was in a plain hospital room, the air conditioning buzzing and a monitor beeping with his heart. An IV was stuck in his arm, feeding him some sugary solution. The world seemed very flat as if pressed against his eyes. He blinked a few times. His vision turned three dimensional again. "John?" His voice was scratchy.

"I'm here," he said. Sherlock turned his head and saw that John was sitting next to him in a green chair, still holding his hand. "Where are you, Sherlock?

"Hospital, London. If I've been known to be out for a decade, it's 2021."

John breathed, smiling out of wonder. "Who are you? Who am I?"

"I'm Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective to Scotland Yard. And the occasional unaffiliated client. I have a website and live on Montague Street in London, England, United Kingdom, Europe, Earth, Milky Way Galaxy if you must know. My brother is Mycroft Holmes. My mother and father are dead, years and years ago." His eyes seemed to go out of focus for a moment and the vision before him faded dangerously. He thought he smelled Holmesville. He sought out John's face and felt the real world returning. "You are Dr. John Hamish Watson, M.D. You were a medical doctor for the the Royal Army. But you barely got out on the field when you were shot in the shoulder and left unable to perform surgery. You went back to school and studied abnormal psychology and became quiet renowned. Mycroft probably sought you out for my case. You...you...I..."

Sherlock kissed John's palm. "I love you. Quite a lot, actually. You were my favorite city." Sherlock saw John give a wry smile and Sherlock matched it. "Are you in trouble with Lestrade for it?"

"No. Mycroft wanted you cured no matter the cost or ethics. He's got everyone off our backs." There was a pause.

"Amazing."

"Am I amazing?"

"You just pulled yourself out of a nine year and 8 months long delusion. A delusion so perfect and detailed you were cognizant of the world and totally out of it. Of course you're amazing. It's even more amazing to get to talk to you, the real you."

Sherlock tried to sit up and was dizzy. "Whoa, whoa, calm down, Sherlock. It's alright. There's no rush. You could relapse still. Take it easy." With his free hand, John gently pushed him back down, stroking his cheek before retreating the hand.

"I could relapse?" He didn't want to go back there. He wanted to stay and talk with John.

"Yes, most likely. But you've also broken it. You know there's two worlds now: the one of your mind and the cities and the one that's here. It should be easier to find your way back, if you get lost."

Sherlock put John's hand over his face, letting it rest against his nose. John had to stand to accommodate the position. Sherlock breathed John's scent in, memorizing it in the real world. "What happens now, then?"

"We monitor you, we make sure you're not relapsing and have all your life and motor skills in tact and then you are released. I'm sure Mycroft has something planned after that." John said dryly. "He always does."

Sherlock let go of John's hand. "What happens to you?"

"I'll be with you every step of the way. Once you're released, I get other, less intense cases. In the meantime, I'm on you twenty-four hours and when I'm not immediately at your bedside I'm probably thinking about you anyway." John chuckled. He smoothed Sherlock's hair from his forehead. "Are you tired? How are you feeling?"

Sherlock sat up, ignoring the dizziness and bracing himself on the sides of his bed. "Come with me."

"Come with you where?"

"When I'm released. Come with me." Sherlock studied John's face, seeing all the emotions flick across. Surprise, analysis, caution. "You can keep your doctoral position, but come live with me."

John's eyes widened. He looked away. "I don't know if Mycroft would allow..."

"To hell with Mycroft!" Sherlock said. "All those things you said, all those things you did in the cities, that was real wasn't it? This is real."

Sherlock grabbed John and kissed him, tasted him. John seemed to stiffen, decide something, and then melt into it, putting a knee on the bed to follow Sherlock against his bed frame when Sherlock leaned back. He put his hands on Sherlock's head, tangling into his curls. Sherlock wrapped his arms around John's waist, attempting to pull him closer. He had been gone too long. He had been asleep too long. He was dizzy, the room seemed to be spinning.

John broke away and licked his lips. "You have no idea how long I've wanted to do that."  
Sherlock moved to John's neck and John seemed to stifle a groan. "Jesus, Sherlock. You don't so much as look properly at someone for years and now. God."

Sherlock pulled back and looked at John. His flushed face and dirty blonde hair. The blue of his eyes: the color of Watsonville's sky. "Does this mean you'll come with me? Stay?"

John groaned and fell against Sherlock, talking into his shoulder. "I don't know if you'll want me by the time you're ready to go. Where are you now, Sherlock?"

"Still in London and still I want you to come with me."

"Patients often form attachments to their doctors and-"

"John, shut up."

Sherlock tugged at him and John conceded to fully get on the bed. "I want you. I'll always want you. After you disappeared, I never forgot you. I always remembered and wanted...wanted you to be there."

John just moved to kiss Sherlock again and Sherlock fingered his way up John's spine.

* * *

**Next chapter is an epilogue of sorts. I'll also post a timeline of events as a separate chapter.**


	5. Act 5

_Act 5_

"The world is round and the place which may seem like the end may also be only the beginning." -Ivy Baker

Sherlock was released about three months later, greeting the new year a free, sane man. The London weather was raining and miserable and Sherlock absolutely did not care. Lestrade was smiling, waving goodbye. Mycroft's black car was pulled up to the curb with the man himself leaning against it, umbrella protecting him from the rain. Sherlock and John walked arm and arm, the doctor helping him into the car. Sherlock kissed his palm before letting him go, whispering, "Later?"

"Tonight," John said, leaning a bit back into the car to kiss Sherlock's forehead. "Definitely."

Mycroft just smirked at them and got in the car besides Sherlock, nodding to the driver to continue on.

"I'm glad you're better, dear brother."

Mycroft had been instrumental to John and getting John to Sherlock and therefore considerably less annoying. "Thank you, brother."

"You will stay at least a month in the Sussex manor, recuperating and making sure there are no more negative effects. Only then may you return to London and Montague Street."

"Baker Street. 221b. Montague's too small for two. And John is coming to Sussex. He's taking holiday from work."

"Considering I have not allowed him to take a vacation since you have been under his care, he has quite a lot saved up."

The car rolled onward, the city lazily rushing past. Sherlock had been allowed walks in it, constitutionals in the park, Sherlock deducing people and objects all the way. But now he was seeing the greater parts of the place, the traffic, the walkers, the pensioners with their dogs. There were the Victorian facades, the flowerpots, the adverts for leases and rents. John had been working with him to reacclimatize to the city that had been his home and Sherlock was excited to finally be free in it. Sherlock dug through his coat and pulled out John's army mug from his pocket, twirling it in his hands.

He wondered if he and John would eventually do some traveling.

* * *

**Credits:**

THANK YOU THANK YOU THANK YOU THANK YOU THANK YOU. I'm sorry the last chapter is so gimpy. I didn't really have much more to say. Extra special thanks and love and city-delusion!Sherlock kisses to:

SniperKingSogeKing0341, CuriousDreamWeaver, Jeffery (from real life Watsonville!), Lolita-Mist, femmenoire, Cardindahat, johahptw, sheholmes, Phoenix-021, and of course, YOU, whoever is reading this.

May all your lives be phantasmic, your doctors attentive, your minds sharp, your travels inspiring, and your enemies shot in the brain by your older sibling!


	6. Timeline: contains spoilers

**As promised:**

_The Traveler_ Timeline:

January 2010: the (slightly altered) events of _A Study of Pink_ occurs

March 2010: the (slightly altered) events of _The Blind Banker_ occurs

April 1, 2010: Sherlock is kidnapped by Moriarty (in the final act of_ The Great Game_)

2010-2012: Sherlock is tortured and toyed with for six months (April 1st to October 2010). He begins getting lost in his mind palace, not surfacing for longer and longer periods of time, until by November 1st he is recognized as fully in the delusion with a re-interpreted past.

-November 1, 2010: Sherlock lives in Holmesville without Mycroft and travels to Moriarty City.

-November 1, 2010: Moriarty realizes that he has broken Sherlock. He begins presenting Sherlock with violent crimes, which Sherlock still solves.

February 2011: Moriarty establishes himself as a "real person" to Sherlock. He continues to give him crimes.

May 2011: Moriarty begins to try to cure Sherlock through violent means, realizing how threatening situations make him respond somewhat. Sherlock begins to come back, but then goes deeper in, the cities gaining more definition.

June 2012: Moriarty gives up and drops Sherlock off at the police station.

-Mycroft removes Sherlock from Moriarty City and establishes himself as a "real person"

-Mycroft takes over Holmesville

-Dr. Molly Hooper assesses Sherlock's physical and mental state

-Sherlock travels to Hooperville

July 2012: Sherlock is taken to live in the mental hospital in London

-Sherlock travels to Lestradeville, Donovonville, and Andersonville for the first time. Sherlock moves his things to Lestradeville

October 2012: Sherlock experiences his first "thunderstorm" i.e. electro-shock therapy. Mycroft always attends these sessions.

November 2012-November 2020: Literally nothing of note happens because the author is a cruel, awful person.

December 2020: Sherlock begins to grow violently bored.

February 2020: Sherlock is referred to a up and coming specialist Dr. John Watson. John joins Lestrade's staff.

-Sherlock travels to Watsonville for the first time

March 2020: The mental hospital holds a small rugby tournament, complete with food stalls and visiting family members. Sherlock has a Deduction Booth and John gives him the army mug.

August 2020: John gets drunk and establishes himself a "real person."

-John confronts the fact that Harry will most likely die in an alcohol-related illness. Sherlock, in his own manner, comforts John.

-Sherlock gives John a tour of Holmesville

-Moriarty kidnaps Sherlock again, hoping that Sherlock can be now made coherent enough to become his toy and/or take over the criminal world.

-Mycroft finds Sherlock and shoots Moriarty in the brain with little ceremony.

September 2020: In response to Moriarty's attack, John loses his establishment as a "real person" in Sherlock's mind.

-Dr. Irene Adler is put in charge of Sherlock's case and joins Lestrade's medical staff

-Sherlock travels to Adlerville and helps it with its personal problems (i.e. some weird version of the_ Scandal of Belgravia_ occurs)

October 2020: Sherlock helps Henry Baskerville overcome his disorder (i.e. some weird version of _The Hounds of the Baskerville_ occurs)

-Sherlock travels to Baskerville

December 2020: Harry Watson dies

January 2021: Sherlock begins his search for Watsonville

-Lestrade and Mycroft begin dating

February 2021: Sherlock's own efforts and Mycroft's arm twisting makes John agree to be Sherlock's doctor again

August 2021: Sherlock breaks the delusion and both he and John are very happy.

August 2021-November 2021: Sherlock is rehabilitated and made ready to become a normal member of society. He has some small relapses, but more or less stays in reality.

January 2022: Sherlock is released from the hospital to go live in Sussex.

May 2022: Sherlock and John move into 221b Baker Street.


End file.
